


strangers in the night

by minnow_writes



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Period-Piece lesbianism, debauchery in a generic period-piece era lets gooooo, he/him butch lesbian rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnow_writes/pseuds/minnow_writes
Summary: Mr. Beverly Lawrence thinks he might die of boredom at a stately party… that is, until he happens to meet Ms. Windsor.Alright, so he might die alittle.
Kudos: 14





	strangers in the night

**Author's Note:**

> content tags: 3rd person, actual dick, degredation (light), he/him butch, oral, period-piece era, praise kink, semi-public, she/her femme

If one managed to secure an invitation to an event hosted by the Mr. and Mrs. Remington, why, they might be considered a person of good fortune, indeed. But only a select few this evening were so lucky meet Mrs. Remington’s rigorous qualifications of what she considered a Proper Guest. As she planned her socialite gatherings each month one might find her reviewing, with a furrow in her brow over a cooling cup of tea, the activities of those she knew, and their family’s activities, and their business dealings, and those connected to them, and what they had worn last, and their average acceptability of their fashion over the past few weeks, and whether they met the social standard for the theme she felt was appropriate for the house, and whether their cadence and level in speaking was too shrill, and of what kind of conversation she was in the mood to hear, and to entertain her dull husband with, and so on;

Therefore – one might imagine – it was with great surprise that Mr. Beverly Lawrence found himself in Mr. and Mrs. Remington’s grand sitting-room among the elite that had been selected with surgical precision. Mr. Lawrence reflected on this surprise with each conversation he floated to and from, mingling along the edges of clusters of well-acquainted individuals. It was about as easy, he mused, as breaking a long-gone hardened loaf of bread, and about as dry as it, too.

It would have been, of course, nigh unforgivable to decline Mr. and Mrs. Remington’s invitation, since they were from a family of such stature and import. So he would endure – may the Lord notice his plight and generously reward him for persevering – preferably with a glass of quality wine and a sizable nap.

He straightened the lapels of his tailcoat and clasped his hands behind his back, attempting to tune in to whatever drivel a rather pompous-looking gentleman was puffing out of his chest, if only to pass the time. It wasn’t long before his eyes politely started to wander around the room, picking apart each lavish cushion thread by thread. He soon moved on to counting and averaging the number of strings per tassel on the edges of the drapes, and when he finally exhausted of that task, he watched the other groups instead, sequestered together like little islands in what he might consider a lackluster example of an archipelago. His gaze tiptoed along parts of dresses and coats and gloves and canes, and, Mr. Beverly Lawrence thought, he might start fisticuffs with the man still brute-forcing his way through something about finances if he didn’t get away now, and so with a polite nod and a quiet _e_ _xcuse me_ , Mr. Beverly Lawrence drifted to the next most tolerable conversation he could find.

It was about halfway through his journey that a woman, previously obscured by a few taller gentlemen standing in his view, caught Mr. Lawrence slipping away – and he, her observing him.

For a heartbeat they hung there in a secret, fleeting exchange.

Then it was over as quickly as it began, and Mr. Lawrence sagged into the rim of the little group he retreated to, who – with his poor luck – were discussing marriage relations.

“And what do you think of the engagement between Mr. March and Ms. Shirley, Mr. Lawrence?” an older woman, whom he miraculously remembered as Mrs. Livingston, asked as he entered. “I think Ms. Shirley might be a bit of a handful, as it were, for Mr. March’s family.”

To be quite honest, as the Lord would want him to be, Mr. Beverly Lawrence did not know who on God’s green earth Mr. March was.

“They seem agreeable enough,” Mr. Lawrence replied.

Mrs. Remington, perhaps, extrapolated a bit too much along social circles when crafting this evening’s guest list. No matter – with Mrs. Livingston sent into polite little titters and _s_ _urely you jest, Mr. Lawrence!_ , it seemed he managed to humor, and that was enough to make him inconsequentially agreeable.

He turned a bit to scan the room once more, revisiting his memorization of Mr. and Mrs. Remington’s heavy drapes when, upon giving himself a break by letting his gaze wander, he found Her peering at him once more with the kind of inquisitiveness that made him feel as though they were the only two in the room.

Startled, but not displeased – like when a bit of static leaps from the doorknob to your finger – Mr. Beverly Lawrence offered her a gentle nod and the smallest smile he could manage around the lions of gossip in his circle that would surely pounce otherwise.

She accepted him with a smile of equal measure, and suddenly Mr. Beverly Lawrence became very intrigued.

He devised and executed a plan – based off about an hour of practice, mind you, so he was fairly confident in its success. After indulging the marriage council with his presence, he’d slip away and join the group that was a bit closer to Hers than the last. Every so often, he’d politely allow his attention to wander elsewhere, as he had done previous, but eventually settled in her general area, and each time they’d find each other between the bodies and give each other a little smile – or when the situation called for more subtlety, the pinching of the corners of the eyes. Mr. Lawrence delighted in this little joke they shared – whatever the punchline was – and the time that was once arduously dragging along he now relished, as he had another partner to languidly stretch through it, as he could take his time getting to know a stranger without saying a single word to her: watching her as she spoke with controlled poise, and her finding him when she was finished, eyes shining with Something; when he caught the column of her neck, turned to listen to another; or her gloved hands against her front, or the length of her arm, or the round of her shoulder, or the line of her brow, or the breadth of her chest,

“Mr. Lawrence, was it?”

“Beverly Lawrence, yes.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” She offered a hand. “Vivian Windsor.”

By the time Mr. Lawrence had reached Ms. Windsor, the party had dissolved into smaller conversations. They stood near a wall, shrouded by a few others far too preoccupied to notice people as inconsequentially agreeable as Them. He clasped her warm palm in his and gently kissed the back of her gloved hand.

“Honored, madame,” he murmured as he pulled away.

Ms. Windsor tensed for a moment, locked onto him with a certain kind of Look that cemented his feet to the floor, but it was gone in a blink, replaced by a smile as she withdrew her hand. “Of course you are.”

“It’s true!” he exclaimed, but he was smiling as well. “As I am also sure it is true that you are of the highest social pedigree if you find yourself here. If anything, I should be waiting on you hand and foot and walking three inches less your height at all times.”

Ms. Windsor nearly laughed, teeth on her lip. “And what does that make you?”

“A fluke, surely. I don’t believe I fit into Mrs. Remington’s standards of elegant social propriety.”

Ms. Windsor stepped back a bit and regarded Mr. Lawrence carefully. “Well,” she said, looking from the tips of his black tall boots to the folds of his lapels to the reserved tuck of his cravat to his manicured hair. And as Mr. Lawrence’s heart plummeted into the core of the Earth he suddenly felt this moment was much too inappropriate for a refined party, being examined by this beautiful – _beautiful_ – it marched up to him and punched him in the gut – _beautiful_ woman. The details he spent the evening collecting fell together before him: the weight and intricacy of her blue and gold dress, the softness of her hands, sheathed in thin, elbow-length royal navy gloves, the rounds of her shoulders and the breadth of her chest in which an amulet hung like an ornament, the column of her neck and the swell of her cheeks and the dancing mischief in her eyes as she concluded, with a Certain Sort Of Knowing, “you certainly look the part.”

Mr. Lawrence let out a breathy laugh, if only to mask his nervousness. “Elegant, or a fluke?”

“I’m not so certain I’d describe you as _elegant_ , Mr. Lawrence,” she said, the corner of her mouth curling into her cheek.

Mr. Lawrence found her beautiful of course, but even more so when she flirted. He wondered if she saw _him_ that way, as well. “That makes me quite a lucky fluke then, does it not?”

She hummed in agreement. Her eyes flickered up-and-down him again. “And a handsome one, indeed.”

Well, Mr. Lawrence thought, that sufficiently answered _that_ question.

Ms. Windsor glanced at the rest of the room for a moment, and then leaned in just a hair and whispered, “Why don’t we steal away to the courtyard?”

“Oh?” Mr. Lawrence leaned in with her, just a bit, hands clasped in front of him, pretending to watch the ongoing party. “And what might we do out there?”

She turned her head as inconspicuously as possible to the wide-open entryway. When she turned back to Mr. Lawrence, her eyes were dark and glimmering with something impish. “Have more fun than we would in here, surely.”

* * *

The courtyard, large and sprawling and meticulously maintained by Mr. and Mrs. Remington’s gardeners, was blissfully devoid of any other partygoers, the rest of them more keen to gorge on an endless supply of food and drink and gossip than to take a stroll in the fresh air. It was well past ten, and the lush, flowering bu shes and trees offered plenty of lovely scenery, even in the low light, to anyone who walked the grounds. Truly, this was an exquisite example of the Lord’s handiwork in all his natural and good creation – which, unsurprisingly, was in the process of being thoroughly debauched by Ms. Windsor and Mr. Lawrence. They had found a bench in a nook surrounded by dense branches, a little ways off the main paths and a safe distance away from the house, and it was all but a second after they had both primly agreed to take a seat that they had burst into giggles at the absurdity of it all and kissed – clumsily – hungrily – Mr. Lawrence gripping Ms. Windsor’s waist, her letting out a gasp – “Mr. Lawr – ”

“Please,” he insisted, “Beverly.”

“Beverly.”

It was heavenly on her lips, his name. He wanted her closer. “Ms. Windsor, may I – ”

She was already climbing in his lap, rucking up layers of her dress out of the way and settling against him, splaying her gloved hands against his chest, pressing them up to his shoulders, cupping his neck, tracing his soft lips with her thumbs. She leaned in just barely out of reach. “Vivian.” Her warm breath puffed against his mouth.

Beverly expected her to kiss him, or pull away, but she did neither, instead choosing to hang there. Her lashes lifted, and she looked at him with something so intense it twisted his abdomen in knots. “Would you think it terribly forward, Beverly,” she husked, dragging a single finger along the line of his jaw, “if I said I wanted to make you come?”

He leaned in to her touch ever so easily, as though it was something familiar, even though his heart was thundering in his chest. He slid his hands from Vivian’s waist to under her skirts until he found her thighs, warm against his palms. “Forward? No,” he mused, smirking a little as he watched her try to pretend she was unaffected, and squeezed gently. “Unladylike? Perhaps.”

“And _you’_ _re_ the picture of a gentleman with your hands up my dress,” she teased back, but her breath was uneven.

“I suppose that makes us both whorish,” Beverly said with a full-toothed grin.

Vivian’s laughter filled him with bubbling warmth. “I’d wager Mrs. Remington wouldn’t have invited either of us if she knew about our deviant behavior.” Her hand snaked down between them till she found him there, and his chest stuttered and heaved as she played with him outside of his trousers. His hands closed around her thighs, soft, strong fingers pressing into her skin, and she let out an altogether undignified whine, hips canting against nothing.

“ _I’d_ wager,” Beverly replied, “she’d put us on some sort of Prohibited Party Persons list and nail it to the township church door if she discovered that you and I were so desperate as to fuck a stranger out of wedlock in her courtyard.”

Vivian pursed her lips to quiet a moan, her hand between them abandoning its task as she bore down on Beverly’s lap.

“What’s this?” Beverly asked, positively wolfish, tilting his head to peer at her though she tried to shy away, cheeks flushed with vigor and embarrassment. “Is that an attractive idea to you, Vivian? Dirtily fucking a stranger when anyone could come out and find us?”

Vivian pressed her face into his neck, kissing the collar of his coat once, then moving up to his ear and whispering, “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

Beverly swallowed thickly, sliding a hand from her thigh to her cunt. He gently pulled her panties aside and dragged his fingers along the wetness gathered there, reveling in the sound of Vivian’s gasps against his neck and the sensation of her fingers digging into the layers of fabric on his shoulders. He sucked in a ragged breath and moved his fingers slowly, tracing each lip and briefly visited her clit – he was rewarded with a whimper – and moved to her entrance, began to press his fingers in –

Her iron-tight grip on his forearm froze him in place. “No,” she gasped out, but did not draw away. Beverly cautiously placed his hand back on her thigh, a neutral place, and waited for her instruction.

“I…” she realized how hard she gripped his arm, and relaxed her fingers. “It hurts if you go inside.” Her cheek was hot against his. “I’m sorry.”

“Vivian,” Beverly said, holding still, letting her have refuge, “it’s alright.” He moved his hands up and down her thighs slowly, squeezing occasionally until she was once again comfortable. “What do you want?”

“To make you come,” she breathed.

Beverly hummed, dragged his blunt nails against her skin. “And how would you like to do such a wicked thing?”

Finally, she drew away from his neck. Beverly thought her the pinnacle of debauchery – lips a bit mussed, cheeks pink, eyes wide and dark with lust – absolutely stunning.

She kissed his cheek and said as though it were obvious, “I’m going to suck your cock, darling.”

She slid out of his lap, then, her hands firmly following down his neck, his torso, his waist, his thighs, and with a start Beverly realized – “ _Wait_ – ” and hastily wriggled out of his coat, folding it roughly in half and offering it to Vivian. “The ground is rocky – please.”

Vivian blinked once, then laughed, shaking her head. “Ever the gentleman.” She took the coat and placed it on the ground beneath her, knelt, and ran her hands along the inside of his thighs till she moved upward and reached his belt. Beverly’s chest heaved watching it unfasten, then each button of his trousers, one by one. “Don’t worry, darling,” she purred, pulling the fabric away until she was left with the hard bulge beneath his underthings, “I’ll take care of you.”

Before Beverly could respond, her mouth was on him, lips dragging against the cotton barrier, her fingers hooking at the edge and pulling down till he was exposed. His heart hammered against his ribs – she leaned in, breathed on the tip.

“ _Vivian_ ,” he said, strained, “if you keep up being a tease, someone might wonder where we’ve gone.”

Her hands slid down to his thighs and tightly squeezed, letting out another quiet moan as she canted forward again. “You only say that to – to make me put my mouth on you sooner,” she retorted, remarkably, in an act of stubborn cheekiness that Beverly found wildly attractive. He gripped the arm of the bench with one hand and shifted till the toe of his boot rested over her cunt and pressed down. She gasped, bucking shamelessly against him.

“No,” he replied evenly, “I say that to make you wetter.” He pressed harder. “Dirty girl.”

With a whimper she bore down on him relentlessly, kissing the tip and then plunging down, and Beverly nearly vaulted off the bench, overwhelmed with the sensation of her warm, wet mouth on him, of her tongue sliding against him. Gasping, groaning, his hips twitched upward into her and she moaned, mouth still full of his cock. He instinctively reached for her head, then jerked his hand back, whatever last bit of common sense was left in his head scolding him that intricately put together hairstyles were _not_ so easily repaired once mussed, and so his hand landed on her wrist instead, squeezing.

She pulled off of him, lips gleaming with spit as she looked up. “No need to worry about being rough. I’ll stop if it’s too much.”

All he could manage was a nod as she took him in again. His lungs felt too big for his chest, and each time she did something a little more wicked – licking up his shaft sinfully with a broad tongue, gripping his thighs a bit harder when she pulled up, taking him faithfully when his hips bucked unevenly – he felt himself inching closer and closer to coming undone, heat searing from the pit of his stomach downwards.

“Vivian – ” he groaned, gritting his teeth, “ _f_ _uck_.”

Vivian clawed at his trousers, fisting the fabric in her hands, until something seemed to snap within her as she hastily yanked a glove off and wrapped her bare, warm hand around his shaft and pumped.

“My _god_ – good – ” he realized she was devotedly still humping against the toe of his shoe – “good girl, good girl, _fuck_ , Vivian – ” and he bit hard against the inside of his cheek, heel dug into the ground, gripped the iron arm of the bench till his knuckles were white to keep his moan from being too loud as she coaxed his orgasm into her mouth. When he came-to after a few panting breaths, he found her looking up at him, wiping her lips and chin with the back of her wrist and still rubbing against his shoe, but much slower than before. Her mouth curled up into a devilish little smirk.

“Hello there, handsome,” she breathed out with a little laugh. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yes, yes,” Beverly laughed with her, still a bit winded, “up, up, come on, now.” He helped her up at the arms, dragging her back into his lap until she settled against his cock. “My god,” he gasped, “you’re _dripping_.”

“Yes, well,” Vivian smiled, though her thighs were trembling, “that tends to happen when you let yourself be facefucked by a strange gentleman and try to get yourself off on his boot at the same time.”

“Positively filthy,” he murmured, and the moan and shiver that Vivian produced was to die for. “And getting off against a cock? One that you just sucked, wet with your own spit?” He gripped her hips and pressed his length against her and this time her mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut as her hand grasped the back of his neck. “Would that do it for you, _Ms. Windsor_?”

She answered with a jerk of her hips, sliding effortlessly against his shaft, even though the fabric of her panties was still between them. “That’s it,” Beverly pulled her flush against him and pressed open-mouthed kisses on her chest. “Be a good girl and let yourself go for me.”

Vivian needed no further convincing – lost in a haze of pleasure as she whimpered and panted in Beverly’s ear, grinding with increased desperation against him. When Beverly would look back on this moment – fondly, mind you – he couldn’t say for sure what overtook him, but he might wager it was the beautiful woman atop him blaspheming the courtyard with her motions and noises – he joined in, saying things he never thought he might say, eager to see Vivian work up into a frenzy in his lap until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. “Such a filthy little thing,” he cooed against her neck, “I bet you would have come on the tip of my boot if I had left you down there, don’t you think so?”

She didn’t have the ability to reply except to clutch against Beverly harder, rutting erratically against him. But Beverly wasn’t looking for an answer, and only chuckled as she grew more desperate. “I thought so,” he said, and slipped a hand underneath her dress till his thumb found her clit, moving with her efforts until she froze, pressing herself against him and coming with a whine and a harsh, ragged exhale.

Beverly held her there, stroking her thighs absentmindedly until she recovered. After a few moments she pulled back, cheeks completely flushed and brow gleaming with sweat. They looked at each other and immediately broke into laughter.

“Well,” Vivian said, giving Beverly a little kiss on the cheek, “it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lawrence.”

Beverly nodded sagely. “Likewise, Ms. Windsor. Though do you really think we got to know each other all that well?” Vivian laughed, and he continued, “I mean, I certainly would be delighted to get to know you more, should we meet again in the future.”

Vivian gave Beverly an impish look and smiled. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Vivian has vaginismus. I don’t often see it represented in erotica and really wanted to give it some attention because 1) people with vaginismus exist! and 2) people with vaginismus can still enjoy having sex without penetration, and their partners can still enjoy them as well.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed - feel free to send me feedback, as always - I love to hear from you all. :)


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